to the victors go the spoils
by the sun in splendor
Summary: mostly, dean tries to forget.
1. si vis

for hoodietime's tage challenge: _repressed memories._

1. sam's first stitches.

* * *

><p>"Hold him down, Dean." John's hands are shaking, slipping in his youngest son's blood. It's everywhere.<p>

"N-no, seriously, Dad. We need a hospital. This is really bad."

Sam is thirteen and this is not how his first real hunting trip is supposed to end. The floor of the tent is slick and red, the lantern light casting dark shadows.

He can hear Sam's teeth chattering and fuck, _no_- his brother's hand grabs at his leg and squeezes.

"S'okay, Sammy. Dad, please."

"Damn it, Dean. We don't have time to drive. He wouldn't make it."

Which is, of course, something you want to say in front of the patient. Sam's eyes flicker to his brother, who grimaces and rubs a reassuring hand across his chest.

* * *

><p>It takes them almost two hours to get home, even with John laying into the gas pedal as much as the country highways will allow.<p>

It takes twelve stitches to close up the hole in Sam's leg.

It takes-

It takes a fucking lot out of him, is what it takes, so he does his best to forget and move on. The memory is pushed to the back of his mind, and becomes fuel for his nightmares.


	2. pacem

2. that time with the food.

* * *

><p>It's two weeks past his seventeenth birthday, and Dean knows he's completely screwed. A quick survey of the kitchen cabinets-<p>

Yeah. Just as he suspected. And Sam is already galloping down the stairs, undoubtedly ready for a breakfast that dean knows he can't provide. But he pastes on a smile despite all that and tips one of two (count them: two, the empty shelves make panic rise in his chest) remaining cans of beans into a pot on the stove.

Sam has become a ball of constant motion, with an appetite to match. His face falls when he turns the corner into the motel kitchen.

"Seriously? Beans _again_?"

Dean grimaces, Sam shrugs. The beans are wolfed down faster than he can say "Hey, maybe save-".

* * *

><p>After the first week and a half, his homeroom teacher calls him into a conference.<p>

"Mr Cameron. Dean. We need to talk."

He sighs and readies himself for another discussion on sub-par grades and inappropriate hallways conduct.

"I've got to say, I'm a little concerned. You look like you've been ill."

Well, Dean would say he wasn't expecting that, except that he sort of was.

* * *

><p>John is gone for a month, which is long enough to starve but not long enough to get a job, not while Dean is still in school. And at the end, when John comes back with a bag full of cheeseburgers, he locks himself in the bathroom and confronts the mirror he's been avoiding for the past two weeks.<p>

He strips his shirt off and winces when he spots his ribs, the collarbones that stick out like fishhooks.

Back in the kitchen and Sam is practically licking his plate clean. John won't look either of them in the eyes, and Dean wants to scream.

_Don't you see? This is what one meal a day looks like. This is not okay._

He spends his teenage years lying about black eyes and hiding the line of stitches that crawls up his leg.

He tries to forget. It doesn't work.


	3. para bellum

3. how things were, how they are now.

* * *

><p>When he's with Lisa and Ben, he can almost be as apple-pie as Sam had hoped.<p>

He locks his guns in the Impala, covers it with a drop cloth so he can't see where the hood was dented after his brother threw him against it. There are days where he doesn't sprinkle rock salt against the edge of the door, but they're few and far-between.

At one point, Ben catches a stomach virus that rips him up so badly Dean finds him puking blood in the sink. And Dean flips shit (_like any self-respecting father figure_), does everything he can to make Ben comfortable, and then proceeds to tear apart the house to find the hex bag.

He doesn't find anything. He puts the furniture back in order before Lisa gets home, but it's hard to explain the look Ben gives him when he shoves the couch back into its rightful place on the rug.

Things like this are best forgotten.


End file.
